When We Dream
by Atropa Haven
Summary: A spider scuttled across his unbound foot, and after twitching in recognition, he smiled ruefully.
1. Chapter 1

a/n: I know the chapters are short- but these first few segments are really just short stretches of thought- but it will get much longer later. promise. Also- Harry may seem a bit Out of character, but I'm playing pretend with him, so I get some imaginative liscence here.

Disclaimer: I do not own or pretend to own Harry Potter.

When We Dream- CHapter 1

When we dream,we enter a world that is entirely our own.We could climb the tallest mountain, and swim in the deepest ocean. We meet people we never could in real life, and we learn things that we will never remember upon waking. We could talk to people from a different universe, or meet people long dead. We could visit places in the world that we shall never be- or places that we will visit in the future, or already had in the past. In our dreams, there is the illusion of control. But as anyone with nightmares can tell you, it is just an illusion.

Sometimes, when you wake up…you remember. Mostly, it is times where you remembering doesn't matter- elements of the secrets of the universe erased from your mind- but sometimes…

it's not.

Basking in the light of a full moon, a body tossed and turned in fretful slumber. Tatty sheets lay twisted and tangled around the legs of a male form, scars marring otherwise perfect flesh. Suddenly, there is stillness. One arm is tossed over his head, bent at an angle so that his underarm faces the ceiling, creamy whiteness covering red and blue lines of life, while the other arm lies across his pale torso, which is unmoving except for the rhythmic beating of his heart and the heavy, profound breathing that seems to move his whole body. With each breath he takes, warm air emanates from lips that seem to form words without sound.

A hand, seemingly brittle but strong, reaches toward this scarred being that lies oblivious to the world, in the depths of slumber. It hovers uncertain above those moving lips, before retreating into the shadows it had originated from, certain that it shall come back tomorrow. That hand, connected to a man, creeps out from the half-open window, and steals into the humid July night.

Suddenly, the boy bolts straight up in his bed, green eyes wide and amazed. He looks briefly, questioningly, towards the open window, before taking in the state of his room, his books piled awkwardly around, crumpled parchment and broken quills lying haphazardly among his dirty clothes, and the broken toys of his cousin. His eyes land upon his school trunk, and he jumps to his feet, his eyes filled with an unbelieving madness as he drops to his knees in front of it, throwing it open and searching frantically for what is not there, as wide, bright-golden eyes watch his every move in trepidation.

Eyes wide and mouth slack, he settles back on his shins, his body trembling as he stares first at his hands, then his arms, turning them over and touching them to each other as if to test if they were real. He moves next, to investigate his bare body, hands stopping at unblemished patches of skin where he specifically remembers there to be scars. He turns his head towards the only occupant in the room, before rising and walking over to caress her in a gentile fashion, bright-golden eyes closing in contentment before he stops. Coming eye level with his avian companion, who gives the startling imagery to be speckled snow in the shape of a bird, he says, "Hedwig, I don't suppose you could tell me what is going on, could you?"

His only answer is a hoot, which happened to correspond with the howl of a canine singing his mournful note towards the full, midnight moon miles away.

After spending the night going over recent correspondences, birthday cards and presents- , tomes, and textbooks, the boy (whom on a whim we shall call Harry), had figured out what had happened to him, or at least, he believes he has figured it out (he really hasn't but let's run with it okay?). Anyway, Harry believes he has been somehow turned back in time to the summer before his third year. (Ah, but to dream…) This belief was supplement by the fact that when he checked his home, his aunt Marge was found in attendance, her dog ripper laying at the foot of her bed, snoring like a freight train(the woman, not the dog- though they do say that dogs take after their masters-or the other way around), and the fact that none of his books (besides the Monster book of Monsters) went beyond second year material. Pulling out the dishes to set the breakfast table, with His aunt Marge muttering and wiping off her mustache every couple of bites, as well the background cackling of the news on the television that had been the welcoming home present for dudly who(as Harry remembered) had been complaining loudly about the long walk between the fridge and the television in the living room that year- he pondered his situation. He had gone back in time. This meant, in retrospect, that he was a seventeen year old Harry potter, in thebody of the almost-thirteenth year of his life, giving him intuitive knowledge of the future…which…

"Sirius!"

"Boy! What do you think…..lazy….you know how much those cost!... "

His uncle Vernon was reaching a most alarming shade of fuchsia, but at the moment, all that was registering to young Harry Potter's mind was the face on the television screen. It was the very face of the one and only Sirius Black, convicted killer of 12 muggles and Peter Pettigrew. _Oh. Sirius. That means…Wormtail. Shit. _

Our poor boy wonder! What shall he do? Stay tuned until next time for _When We Dream_!


	2. Back at privet drive

When We Dream - Chapter 2

_This didn't happen last time_- was the thought that reverberated in the pounding skull of one Harry James Potter as he lay cramped and restricted- one leg pushed unceremoniously and awkwardly into his pained chest, while both arms wrapped protectively around the gilded cage of his avian familiar. He should have seen it coming though- Uncle Vernon didn't take kindly to the destruction of Aunt petunia's finest china plates.

A spider scuttled across his unbound foot, and after twitching in recognition, he smiled ruefully.

Some might hate the Muggle relatives that beat and starved him, the madman that had placed him there, the megalomaniac murdering half-snake hybrid that had killed his parents- or even the traitor that had given them up to be slaughtered, but Harry Potter didn't Hate.

He'd given up on Hate a long time ago. In a world with scant hope and broken dreams and children that would be born to war, who had the time or energy to hate anyone?

Harry potter got things done. Efficiently, kindly, heroically. It's what people loved about him, and what brought about hope in others. He'd seen enough death to know that it was irreversible, and that to hold on to those that were gone was a ridiculous notion. Those that stayed behind...the ghosts... they lived a mockery of a life in misery, always asking themselves what it might have been to move on, but being too terrified to face it, whatever it may be. He had mourned and moved on when it came to many people- Sirius- his parents, Dumbledore- the childhood he'd never had...

But that time had passed. He had mourned them, and they were gone- but with this new chance came the opportunity to meet and create relationships with people that he would make sure were totally different- He would make sure that Sirius didn't eat rats- and Remus wasn't alone on the full moon. He would make sure that his best friends didn't- (he chuckled breathily) wait until what they both thought their last moments to confess their love, only to find themselves with time to live - however short lived it may have been cut. And he would not wait forever to find out what love was. Not when it was so close to him.

Struck from his musings by his ability to see the spider crawling up his leg, he turned his head painfully to the side to see a glowing, miniature, clownish doll. With a white painted face, and a curling hat and little silk clothes, it was captivating.

Shifting to grasp it, he found that it was no longer or larger than his hand- and settled into his palm easily. It made his fingers tingle somewhat like they would if his hand were to fall asleep but with a much more pleasant taste than the pins and needles that came about when you try to stand up only to notice your hand has fallen asleep during one of Binn's lectures because your head was laying on it. - And if that was a little puddle of drool, who but Hermione would notice? . As he lifted it from the floor, glowing granules of sand drifted down, glowing briefly brighter upon contact with the floor of the cupboard before blinking out of existence. Looking towards Hedwig, He saw that she was watching it entranced, the glow reflected in her voluminous eyes.

Deep, heavy, resounding steps echoed coming down the stairs, adding to the hustle and bustle that sounded from the kitchen as Dinner was about to be served, and startling both Harry and Hedwig out of their contemplation of the little figure. Eyes wide, Harry struggled to stuff it somewhere that the glow would go unnoticed, and succeeded in shoving it into the crevice between his lap and Hedwig's cage, before bunching up the material of his shirt to block out the last vestiges of light from the hallway's rather dim atmosphere.

He was just in time, as his aunt Petunia came charging to the cupboard and slammed open the door, just as his cousin walked by, a curious expression showing on his face.

He didn't quite remember his Aunt cutting such an imposing figure before- but there she stood- arms crossed, one wooden spoon hanging half-limply from her right hand over her left elbow, covered in red sauce - pink frilly apron with coinciding stains, and a scowl so heavy that her forehead knotted up from the weight of it. Shadows lay deeply within her furrows and frown lines, and underneath her shrewd and pinched nose. Her eyes were drawn forward and seemed to pierce into him, as if she had pierced into his very soul, to find all his secrets.

It was a disconcerting thought.

A scowl crossed her features and she started snapping out orders- to go upstairs and get dressed and washed up, while she snapped up Hedwig's cage to reveal- nothing. The doll was gone.

Petunia kept rambling off epithets and orders, seemingly oblivious to her nephew's shock, though as Harry Potter trudged up the stairs, she could be seen standing in the dim hallway looking after him with a contemplative face turned in his retreating direction.


	3. Aunt Marge's Big Mistake

When We Dream- Chapter 3

Aunt Marge's Big Mistake

He had forgotten how absolutely Vile Aunt Marge was- always keeping him in her sight, and barking out suggestions for his improvement- His Uncle flitting fretfully in the background- making sure Harry remembered 'The deal'. Which- Harry thought bemusedly- didn't really matter all that much considering he knew the way to hogsmead and owned an invisibility cloak- not to mention, he'd been there a load of times between his third through sixth years.

Aunt Marge also, He thought with slight derision, delighted in comparing Harry with Dudley, and took huge pleasure in buying Dudley expensive presents while glaring at Harry, as though daring him to as why he hadn't got a present too. She also kept throwing out dark hints about what made Harry such an unsatisfactory person. She had spoken Ill of Harry's mother, of his blood, his size, and, finally, on her last night there, during the dessert of Lemon meringue pie- she commented on his father.

"This Potter," said Aunt Marge loudly, seizing the brandy bottle she was 'sipping' from and splashing more out the brim of her glass over the tablecloth and floor (where her dog ripper, lapped up quite a bit, and Aunt Petunia looked fearfully at the burgeoning stains to be caused from the rest), "you never told me what he did?"

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were looking extremely tense. Dudly had even looked up from his pie to gape at his parents.

"He-- didn't work," said Uncle Vernon, with half a glance at Harry. "Unemployed."

Harry started piling all the meat left over from his plate into a napkin before tying it off and placing it in one pocket.

"As I expected!" said Aunt Marge, taking a huge swig of brandy and wiping her chin on her sleeve. " A no-account, good-for-nothing, lazy scrounger who--"

"You mustn't speak Ill of the dead." Harry whispered, letting his face fall forward with emotion to lie within his raised hand- his eyes closed, his posture slouched while his family looked at him in astonishment. This is the point from before that he'd exploded. It was time to meet Sirius. Time to leave.

"W-what's that boy!" Marge blustered, "Your dear Bitch of a mother going to curse at me from the grave?" She chuckled from her own joke- only to stop at the chalk white faces of the Dursley family members.

"MORE BRANDY!" yelled Uncle Vernon, who emptied the bottle into Aunt Marge's glass. "You, boy, --" He started.

"No"

Marge's head whipped back in the boy's direction

"Imagine if you will, my dear Aunt Marge, what people will do once you're gone. Imagine what they might say about someone who cursed the dead, and what they might do upon your grave in spite."

Harry looked straight into her eyes, his hand falling to rest upon the table and pushing up, he rose from his seat to stand by the table. "People that hate others will find that they will have no one who does not hate them in return at the end. " He paused, and looked at his Aunt Petunia. "I'm going now. If anyone comes for me, tell them I've gone to the Alley." He waited only for her hesitant answering nod before calmly walking towards the cupboard under the stairs. And, with a bit of controlled wandless magic, unlocked it. Dragging his trunk upstairs, he filled it with all the presents and books he had stashed under his loose floorboard, grabbed his wand out of his trunk, and promptly shrank it to fit into his pocket.

As he descended the stairs, Hedwig under one arm, he came upon his family- who upon the sight of his wand cowered just the smallest amount. His Uncle- still as white as a sheet, stepped daringly forward, and for once in his life told his nephew in a calm, controlled voice- "You know if you step out that door, I'll never allow you back in this household again? I take a vow at this moment- never again."

"Yes, I understand you won't do it voluntarily, but there are ways of making you forget." and with that, Harry potter was out in the dark, quiet street, as the door closed behind him.


End file.
